Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine. Vol. 38, No. 13, Mid-December 1993

Carly sidestepped to avoid Sandy’s rush, the limp Abyssinian raised high above her head out of harm’s way — and dropped the startled cat on Sandy’s back as he dashed by. Screaming like a banshee, the terrified animal scrambled for purchase on the running man’s bare neck and shoulders. Exposed skin around his tank top was shredded by needlelike claws as Sandy doubled over, yelling and swiping at his attacker. The cat, naturally, bit him, which brought an additional howl of rage. As Jeff drew level and grabbed Sandy’s arm, the young feline, ears flattened, dug his claws into Sandy’s back muscles, launched himself to the safety of the ground, and scampered off to join his companions, tail stiff with outrage.

Jeff jerked both Sandy’s arms up behind him while Mutt puffed to a halt and produced handcuffs. Sandy, still squirming, shot Hal a murderous look.

“I should have known. You wouldn’t have had the nerve to shoot,” he spat.

“I almost did.” Hal sounded infinitely tired. “You’re a destroyer, Sandy. My family, Sid — even your own wife, just to save your own skin.” He dropped the gun in the sand of the driveway and stared at his betrayer. “You’re only breathing now because I want to know you’re alive a long, long time — staring at four walls.”

“I think we can guarantee that now,” Mutt agreed. “Come on, buster.” They frog-marched Sandy toward the boathouse, probably to call for backup. They certainly needed all they could get.

Hal, Carly, the cats, and I retired to Hal’s dining room. The cats had cream. While we drank something stronger, I told Carly, in choppy sentences, the events that led up to Sandy’s downfall. When pressed, Hal admitted that the scene we’d witnessed was staged by the terrible twosome at Hal’s insistence. Sandy’s “investments” had turned out to be some dry oil wells that paid a surprisingly healthy return, but security wanted hard evidence that would place him squarely at the heart of at least one of the murders. The three conspirators were caught off guard and forced to improvise pretty briskly, he added, once Carly and I poked our noses in.

As we finally bade him goodbye, Hal thanked us for helping with “his problem.”

“What are neighbors for?” was Carly’s reply.

Human lives are at least as delicate as antique lace, but are not so simple to repair.

Hal left the next day for the lab. Someone had to run the place. Eventually Sandy pleaded guilty to all charges. He’ll be staring at those four walls the rest of his life. Carly heard from Deenie when she got out of the hospital. Even with his illegal earnings, Sandy had lived well beyond his income; Deenie was selling the Berkshire, Cape, and Newton houses and planned to travel to Europe to forget. I sent her a note with Mama’s address in Cannes. They’ll get on like a house afire.

There’s a nip of autumn in the air now. Gran’s house is repaired, and I’ve been settling in to brave the winter alone here on the jester’s foot, just me and pages and pages of Perkin. Yesterday Uncle Ernando started weatherproofing the Benson house. He told me Hal has found a successor at the lab and will be arriving in a few weeks.

It looks as though I’ll have a neighbor for the long cold winter.

Kinship by Stephen Wasylyk

Through the plate glass I could see Woody Ban-marching diagonally across the street toward my street-front office, crewcut and broad shoulders canted six degrees forward of his normal head up, shoulders back, get-the-hell-out-of-my-way erectness.

About right. Tomorrow night at eleven would make a week since Alfie Moser had been shot as he was about to enter his car after leaving the house of his mistress, and when the sheriff couldn’t immediately wrap one big fist in the collar of the miscreant who murdered one of his constituents, he sagged about a degree a day.

He pushed open the door, ignored Marvelous Mary’s bright “Good morning,” and glared at me.

“Got a minute?”

Mary’s eyebrows went up as she reached for a pad. Probably making a note for a future lawsuit.

I grinned. The two came from opposite ends of the spectrum. To Woody, a woman’s place was in the home. He’d probably never married because he’d never found one willing to stay there. As far as Mary was concerned, God had always intended women to rule the world but had been too busy straightening out the mess men had made to put His plan into effect.

Not wanting any furniture broken, I said, “Why don’t you take a coffee break, Mary?”

She sniffed at Woody as she passed, and we watched her float by the window. She moved gracefully for a stocky woman.

“How you can work with that woman is beyond me,” said Woody.

“That’s because she probably set fire to your animal pelt in a previous existence after you bopped her because dinner wasn’t ready. She’s intelligent, articulate, sensitive, tenacious, and a born saleswoman. I assume you’re here because you’re still floundering around.”